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Poetry

In such a silence as the aftermath
of love allows, late
September and the sun has turned

its sheer skin inside out.
This emptiness

inside me where a God
was blossoming once.
I hear it like a broken oar;

it is enough. I hear it
like a cooper’s hawk perched

on that oak branch, the sky above
a plum-blue shawl.

This is no parable,
Jesus tells his disciples.
I want to show you in

between my words
a carnal will to be reborn.

Late September,
late light plays me
like a string quartet.

Now listen, Jesus says.
You must forever live
with what you would become.

 


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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